The Portamis Collection
by PristinelyUngifted
Summary: This is a series of loosely interconnected drabbles, written with the aim of telling a Portamis love story alongside the canon timeline. Starting with 1x02, I dedicated myself to writing one Portamis drabble per episode. Each one can stand alone, but they are meant to be read as part of an ongoing story arc. The series will be updated as the episodes air.
1. Take Me Home

**Collective Title:** The Poramis Collection

**Warnings:** Canon Typical Violence; Spoilers; Drunkenness; Sexual Situations; Swearing; Canonical Character Death.

**Summary:** This is a series of loosely interconnected drabbles, written with the aim of telling a Poramis love story alongside the canon timeline. Starting with 1x02, I dedicated myself to writing one Poramis drabble per episode. Each one can stand alone, but they are meant to be read as part of an ongoing story arc. The series will be updated as the episodes air, and will appear on AO3 first.

* * *

_Take Me Home_

Aramis sat at a corner table in the usual tavern, watching Porthos take in some fool at cards. It was perfectly obvious that Porthos was cheating, even from Aramis' seat across the room. Porthos got sloppy with the sleight of hand when he was drunk, and he was a bit into his cups to be swindling travelers. But the lad he was playing with didn't seem to know a club from a spade, so he deserved to lose his money to Aramis' way of thinking. Athos wasn't there to complain at any rate, and Aramis would watch Porthos' back if it came down to a fight.

Still, they were supposed to be behaving themselves after that near miss with the theft of the royal jewels and setting D'Artagnan up to be thrown in prison with Vadim. The Captain had been most insistent on that point. So Aramis tossed back the rest of his wine and headed over to send the young buck on his way before Porthos ended up owning the man's sister, his house, and his unborn sons.

"There you are, lad, off you go," he said, shoving the young man's cloak and hat into his hands, jerking him out of the chair with one elbow as he did so. The boy protested, but Aramis would hear none of it. Leaning forward conspirationally, he whispered, "Between you and me, you don't want to end up owing any money to this one. He can get mean. Especially when he's had a few drinks. They say he used to be a pirate, you know."

The lad glanced at Porthos, and Porthos obligingly scowled and gave a menacing grunt. "We playing another hand, or not?"

The lad decided that they were not and scurried away, probably home to his mother. He had the look of a man who was still attached to the apron strings.

Aramis sat himself down in the lad's vacated chair and watched as Porthos signaled for another draft of grog. Aramis was never sure whether to believe the stories that told of Porthos the Pirate, but his friend had at least been a sailor long enough to develop a taste for that swill. The one time Aramis had tried some, he swore it had made his tongue grow hair.

"You're pounding them back quickly tonight," he commented, gathering up the playing cards strewn about the table.

Porthos grinned. "Not as quickly as you pound through women."

Aramis burst into laughter, tossing his head back and letting his shoulders shake with it. "That's a crude way of putting it. I'll have you know that I am a romantic lover. I don't conquer. I woo, with honeyed words and soft touches and the occasional display of dashing heroics."

Porthos snorted. "And that damned stare of yours."

"I don't know what you mean," Aramis riposted, though he knew exactly what Porthos was speaking of. Still, it wasn't as if he did it intentionally. He couldn't help that he had magnetism.

He signaled a passing serving woman for another flagon of wine, his hand finding its way to the cross about his neck when he lowered it. In just the short time he'd had it, the queen's gift had become something of a luck piece. His fingers worried at it whenever he was thinking, especially when what he was thinking of was the queen herself.

Porthos slammed his grog down on the table with a thump. "Still wearing that, are you?"

Aramis raised both his brows. "It is a token from one of our monarchs. Why wouldn't I wear it?"

Porthos scoffed. "You're an idiot, and you're going to be the death of me yet." His face was red with drink, and Aramis chose to put his harsh tone down to that. Porthos was usually a merry drunk, but every man was entitled to be surly now and then.

"I think it's likely that swill you're drinking will kill you long before I do. Now come, I'll walk you back to your lodging house. Otherwise you're likely to miss the morning drills and Athos and I will be dispatched to find whatever ditch you've fallen down in to sleep this off."

Unusually serious, Porthos leaned across the table and gripped the front of Aramis' tunic, pulling him in close. It was fortunate for Porthos that Aramis would trust Porthos with a knife blade to his throat, for he had challenged men to duels for less than this.

Porthos pulled until their foreheads were pressed together, Aramis' hair falling over his cheeks to brush against Porthos' skin.

"Not her," Porthos said, his voice cracking. "Please not her, Aramis. For once. Just _once_, could you aim your sights a little lower?" He gave a shuddering breath that Aramis could feel down to his toes, the sound one that whispered sorrows.

Aramis tried to think what could possibly be upsetting Porthos and came up blank. What could ail such a mighty spirit? Jolly Porthos, he who delighted in fighting and gambling and was living exactly the life he wanted. Brave Porthos, who was better to have at your back than an entire garrison of mounted soldiers. Porthos the Pirate who, as he would tell it, was a legendary terror in Spanish waters.

Porthos turned his head, bumping his nose against Aramis'. Aramis could feel the short hot gusts of Porthos exhaling against his lips.

"Porthos, I – "

Porthos tightened his grip on Aramis and yanked harder, cracking their skulls together and making Aramis' chair clatter against the table. "Promise me," he ordered, and in that moment he sounded like a broken man.

Mouth dry, completely bewildered, Aramis said, "I promise."

At once Porthos' face relaxed into a wide easy smile, his usual gregarious self. "Good man," he murmured, then planted a hard smacking kiss just above Aramis' right ear, following it with a ruffle of hair, which he knew Aramis hated.

Aramis huffed, hurriedly patting his hair back into place. "Can I take you home _now_?"

Porthos shrugged, but he was still smiling. "Yes, Aramis. Take me home."


	2. Having a Bath

_Having a Bath_

"Mind my wound."

"Mind my needlework," Aramis said, laying his hand on Porthos' shoulder to steer him down the road. He was going to keep Porthos with him in his rooms near the Musketeer compound until that wound had healed enough for the stitches to come out. Porthos couldn't be trusted to look after himself.

"Are you planning to nanny goat me?" Porthos asked, though he sounded pleased about it and allowed Aramis to direct him without complaint.

"Nanny goat? Porthos, I am a ram among rams and don't you forget it!" He moved his hand up to the back of Porthos' neck and gave it a gentle squeeze, comforted to feel the pulse of life there.

He would not say so aloud, but keeping Porthos with him was to reassure himself as much as it was to look after his friend. Porthos likely knew it, too.

"And here I thought you were the one putting the horns on other men[i]," Porthos sniggered.

Aramis laughed. "None of your cheek, now! Else I have second thoughts about allowing a lout like you into my bed."

Porthos didn't have a reply for that, and they walked in companionable silence all the way to the boarding house, Aramis never removing his hand from Porthos' neck.

"Why is it that when one of us is hurt, we always stay at your place?" Porthos asked once they'd let themselves in and made their way into Aramis' suite of three rooms by the light of a single candle. He threw himself down on the bed, wincing when the careless movement no doubt pulled at his stitches.

"Because my bed is bigger and I have my own washtub," Aramis answered. He removed his hat and set it on the low table in the center of the room, then set about unbuckling his weapons. He wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath the blankets, but rest would have to wait a bit longer.

Porthos gave him a look and gamely started unfastening his coat, anticipating what Aramis wanted. "You only have this big bed and that washtub because you make the landlady think you're in love with her."

Aramis, shirtless now, put a hand over his heart and made a show of reeling back from the insult. "I'll have you know that the madame is well into her twilight years, and simply enjoys the attentions of a well groomed man in uniform. There is nothing underhanded about it. And speaking of grooming, get those boots off. We're having a bath."

Porthos groaned. "Must we, Aramis? I just want to sleep. We can bathe in the morning."

Aramis went to the bed and knelt on the floor, forcibly yanking off one and then the other of Porthos' boots and wrinkling his nose at the smell of sweaty feet. "We really must. That wound needs cleansing, and I'll not have the pair of us wallowing in my sheets smelling of days on horseback."

"But we can wallow in them smelling of rosewater?" Porthos sniped, rising to his feet.

Aramis blinked at the odd tone in Porthos' voice. "Yes. Now go sit in the tub, I'll carry the water[ii]."

It took several trips and a stop to reassure the madame that he wasn't a footpad[iii], but Aramis eventually had the tub filled and was able to join Porthos with a cloth and his little dish of soap, grumpily negotiating who had to put their feet where in the cramped tub.

"The water is cold. And it stings," Porthos complained.

"Yes, so you always say." Aramis wet the cloth and worked it into a lather, then passed it to Porthos. "Now cleanse that wound lest you want it to rot. It's not in a place I can amputate, you know."

Porthos grumbled, but did as he was told. Aramis took the opportunity to wash his hair, bending over to dunk his head in the water. Porthos froze next to him, and Aramis belatedly realized that in the act of dunking his head, his face had ended up nearly betwixt Porthos' thighs.

Aramis sat up, water trailing down his cheeks and dripping from his beard, and offered Porthos a saucy wink. "Never fear, Porthos. I've no designs on your virtue."

Porthos scowled and hurled the soapy cloth at Aramis, striking him in the chest. Aramis laughed and started to wash himself, laughing harder when Porthos levered himself up out of the tub.

"I'm going to bed," Porthos growled, his half hard cock bouncing as he left the small room where Aramis had his tub and chamber pot.

Aramis simply reclined in the bath water, reflecting that if bathing with him was enough to make Porthos rise to the occasion, it must have been some time since he had a woman.

* * *

[i] Around the time period this takes place in, sleeping with another man's woman was known as 'cuckholding' him. In literature and plays etc., cuckholds were signified by having ram or bull horns on their heads. So when Aramis says he's a ram among rams, it's not what he means, but he's inadvertently called himself a cuckhold. Porthos picks up on that like the snarky princess that he is, and points out that Aramis can't be a ram because he's the one who 'puts horns on other men,' meaning he's the one who makes them cuckholds by sleeping with their women. AND THAT'S THE JOKE.

[ii] In this time period, communal bathing was still a thing amongst people of the same sex in the lower classes because water had to be heated and carried and taking a bath was just really inconvenient okay. So this is not as weird/couple-y as it seems.

[iii] burgler


	3. Wouldn't Mind Dying

**Note:** This fic assumes that Porthos and Aramis know at least the basics of what happened between Athos and Milady.

* * *

_Wouldn't Mind Dying_

On the day that Marsac died, it rained.

It rained when Aramis buried him, and it rained while Aramis wandered the streets, and it continued to rain well into the night, when he finally made his way home to his boarding house.

He liked it, the rain. It suited his mood. Soothed the ache a little, that even the heavens wept for a man so lost.

Who the lost man was, he didn't know. It could have been himself or Marsac.

The knock that came at his door startled him, but it shouldn't have. He knew before he moved to open it that it would be Porthos. Porthos had never been one to let him wallow.

Hair and beard still dripping, his boots squelching with water when he walked, he let Porthos in and returned to sitting on the bed.

Porthos looked him up and down and then went to poke up the fire. "Come over here and get dry. You're getting the bedclothes wet and you look like a bilge rat."

Aramis tried to smile, but all he could manage was a twisted grimace. He did as he was bid, welcoming the chance to follow orders. To stop thinking.

_Isn't that what led to this in the first place?_

Snarling, he turned and kicked one of the spindly chairs that sat around the table in the center of the room. It fell over with a clatter, the noise doing nothing to quell his rage.

Porthos made no comment. He didn't even flinch at the sound or show surprise at the fit of temper. Good, steady Porthos.

"You're still dripping," Porthos reminded him.

Aramis snorted and made quick work of taking off his boots and cloak, stripping until he was down to his shirt and trousers. He used his Musketeer blues to leech the water from his hair, then draped them over the fireplace grating to dry.

The thud of glass against wood made Aramis turn, and he saw that Porthos had just set a full bottle of grog down on the table.

He made a face, taking refuge in an old argument. "Oh, Porthos, no. Not grog. You could use it to strip paint from a canvas, and that's the truth."

Porthos smirked at him. "This'll put some hair on your chest, Aramis. It's time you started drinking like a real man."

Aramis scoffed. "Real gentlemen drink wine."

Abruptly, Porthos turned serious. "Like Athos?" he asked.

Aramis felt the blood drain from his face, all of it going to sit like a stone in his chest. Grabbing at the bottle of grog, he pulled the cork out with his teeth, spat it into the fire, and took a long pull. The taste made him hack and sputter, but almost immediately he felt a rush of warmth loosening his muscles – and his tongue.

He realized that he hadn't eaten yet that day. He hadn't noticed.

"Am I like Athos?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

Porthos said, "I don't know."

Aramis took another pull of the grog, managing not to cough this time. He was tired. So tired.

He moved over to the bed and all but collapsed on it, his legs sprawling out before him. "'You know this has to end here, Aramis.' That's what he said to me. 'You know this has to end here.'"

Porthos came to sit next to him, his shoulder brushing Aramis'. He placed a hand on Aramis' thigh, and his fingers were warm against rain chilled flesh. "You did what had to be done," Porthos rumbled in an almost whisper. "You always do."

A broken laugh bubbled up out of Aramis, sliding passed his lips like oiled glass. "I _am_ just like Athos. I killed my love for duty and honor and now I'm damned."

There was a long pause. Then, "Your love?"

Aramis brought the bottle of grog to his mouth, swirling his tongue around the opening before drinking. "There was more than brotherhood, more than the debt of a life owed between Marsac and I," he said once he could breathe again.

He had never admitted it before. Not even to himself. They had never acted on what went unspoken between them, but Aramis saw no point in denying it now. The church said it was a perversion, but then Aramis did many perverted things. What was one more?

And now Marsac was dead. His spirit had been murdered that night, the night of the slaughter, but his body had lived on until Aramis put lead through his heart.

He was the only survivor now.

"I'm alone," he blurted without meaning to.

Porthos burst into a flurry of motion, knocking the bottle of grog to the floor and pulling Aramis into his arms. "_Never_," he hissed into Aramis' face, their foreheads pressed together. "You are never alone."

Aramis looked into Porthos' eyes and thought to see disgust, or at least apprehension there. But instead there was a hope so fierce and bright that he was almost burned by it.

He turned away from that fire, not yet ready to face it, and buried his face in Porthos' neck. And there, he found some comfort. For, breathing in the gunpowder and leather that made up his friend's scent, Porthos' heartbeat in his ear, he realized that he was being held just as he himself had held Marsac in those final moments.

And he thought, _I wouldn't mind dying here._


	4. Will You Abandon Me?

**Notes: **I thought I was going to write a dramatic confrontation, but then this happened instead. Idek.

Though the other fics in this series are written in the past tense, this one is written in the present tense. It just felt right for the scene. This fic is also from Porthos' POV.

You will notice that with this drabble, the title of the series has changed to 'The Portamis Collection.' I realized I was the only one using 'Poramis' and decided to stop being a special snowflake.

* * *

_Will You Abandon Me?_

Flea's words echoing in his ears, Porthos strolls down the Rue St. Jean and finds his friends waiting for him at the edge of the Court of Miracles. It is just as well. He is not of the Court any longer, and Flea made it clear that the Court would deal with Charon's body in their own way, and that Porthos is not any more welcome there than another Musketeer would be.

He isn't sure whether to be angry at that.

"Did you ever think we'd abandoned you?" Aramis asks, a smile on his lips, but something haunted in his eyes.

Loving Aramis has never been harder than it is in this moment. And Porthos does love Aramis. He has known that for a long time. Only a little longer than he has known that Aramis loves him too. But it wasn't until recently – until Marsac – that he considered Aramis might come to see him as a lover.

Porthos wants that. Wants it so much that even as he was holding Flea, moving inside her, it felt like goodbye. He's never denied himself the pleasures of the flesh, even after Aramis took hold of his heart, for it would do nothing but cause him misery. Why pine away, feverish and festering, waiting for something that was as unlikely as him being crowned King of France?

But now… now it is possible. It is tantalizingly close, the dream of having Aramis. Porthos lies near him at night, sleeps in his bed, bathes with him and drinks with him, fights with back pressed to back, and now he knows he might have that one thing that was always out of reach before.

And yet.

Porthos fought with Charon. He stole with him. Learned to cheat at cards from him. They bathed and drank together and slept together in the winter for warmth. They grew up together, as close as two brothers could be without blood to tie them.

And Charon is dead, by Aramis' hand.

Aramis sits tensely on his horse, his shoulders a taut line. Porthos watches him, and he hears the sound Charon made when the blade went in his gut. Relives the final moments, the hissed words, the heat of blood and the chill of dying flesh. Charon was trying to kill Porthos, but in death he was not a rival, not a liar, not a traitor. He wasn't even King of the Court anymore.

He was small, and heavy, and one of the last people alive who had known Porthos before he could grow a beard.

And Aramis can tell. He knows it. Porthos only need look up to see shades of Marsac written in the lines of Aramis' face. There will be no easy rest for either of them tonight. Aramis will dream of the massacre, and Porthos… Porthos doesn't know what he will dream of, but he knows that they will be together. He will follow Aramis to his boarding house and claim a side of Aramis' bed, and they will sleep with their arms pressed together, and if either of them wakes up screaming, it won't be the first time.

They will be together, because Porthos loves Aramis, and if their positions had been reversed, if Porthos had been able to shoot Marsac so that Aramis wouldn't have to, he would have done it. _I'm not like you_, Porthos had said to Charon right before Aramis arrived. _I'm not like you._

But he is like Aramis.

Aramis asks if Porthos ever thought himself abandoned, but what he really means is _Will you abandon me?_

Porthos smiles because Aramis needs him to, and because one day, when the river stone of grief in his chest is gone, there will be room for gratitude.

_Will you abandon me?_

"Never."


	5. Let Me Be Brave

**Warnings:** Period-Typical Homophobia; Internalized Homophobia.

**Note:** I'm bad about crossposting these drabbles to this site. Know that they appear a few days after the episodes air on AO3, and will be mass transferred to this site every so often.

* * *

_Let Me Be Brave_

It was plain, after seeing Agnes and baby Henry off on a ship bound for Spain, that Porthos wanted to spend the evening with Aramis.

Part of Aramis greeted this with joy and no small amount of relief, for he had been worried, in the wake of Charon's death, that their brotherhood would be irreparably altered. When Captain Treville had sent Aramis out with d'Artagnan and kept Porthos and Athos close to guard the king, Aramis had hoped that the time apart would serve to let bruised feelings heal and absence make the heart grow fonder.

And yet Aramis found that in the wake of all that had happened since discovering the true bloodline of baby Henry, he needed to be alone. There were thoughts that weighed heavy on his mind, thoughts that had been lying in wait in the shadowy corners of his psyche that his talks with Agnes had pulled howling into the light.

So Aramis went with the others to the usual tavern, The Fox, but had only two drinks before making his excuses. Porthos gave him a questioning look when he stood, and d'Artagnan glanced between them like a child who suspected discord among his family, but Aramis set them both at ease with a smile and a tilt of his hat. Athos, still sober for once, perhaps because of Aramis' earlier slip about the brandy, bid him goodnight, and then Aramis was free to stroll the streets of Paris, his feet taking him unerringly past Treville's hotel on Rue du Vieux-Colombier to the little side street where he had his apartments.

Once inside, however, he found that he could not settle. He didn't feel like eating or bathing, and for some reason this type of contemplation didn't seem suited to his bed. In the end, he went out the door in the back of his lodgings that led to his little shady garden, hidden from his neighbors by a tall hedge and a wall. There was a moldering stone bench, half gone to moss, that he often sat upon in the evenings he had free in the summer. He sat there now, stretching his legs out before him and tilting his head back to look at the moon.

Agnes. He had found a true friend in her, perhaps more than she knew. Her talk of her hidden life, of her relief at being able to walk open and free as a family at last, only to have her happiness stolen from her by people afraid of what they didn't understand… It struck a chord within Aramis, brought fears to light that he had not named, not even to himself.

Agnes had asked him if he'd ever loved again, since his failed engagement at the tender age of sixteen, and he had not answered her. Perhaps he should have. She, of all people, might have understood.

But how could he take the risk? Agnes' husband Philippe had been deformed, thought a demon by ignorant country folk, but there were many who would have decried that conclusion as the rubbish it was. And yet if Aramis spoke openly of his feelings for Marsac and for… There were few who would not consider him damned.

This was why he'd left the church.

He'd never admitted to his desire for Marsac. Not while it still mattered. Not when something might have come from it. It wasn't until his friend was well and truly gone, and his own hand that had done it, that he stopped willfully blinding himself to all that they had and were. And now, with Porthos…

It was all so much more, all so much greater. It was what he had been searching for among his many conquests all this time.

It was love.

Just thinking the word made Aramis' breathing hitch, his heart pounding and hands tingling as if he'd been taken by battle fever. The familiar floating sensation of calm, that the world was not quite real, that time was passing slowly came over him, and he put his hand on his chest, his fingers catching on the cross given to him by Queen Anne.

He would not – could not – say it aloud. If he let the words pass his lips they would gain form and color and he would be unable to forget them or alter them, never be able to stuff them back inside. But he could think them.

_I love Porthos._

He took a deep breath, giving the sentiment time to sink down, to touch the bottom of his soul. It did not take as long as he thought it would, but then he'd always known he loved Porthos. It was the type of love that was the revelation.

Revelation.

Philippe's revelation of himself to those around him had resulted in a brutal death. Aramis had been able to see it reflected there, in Agnes' eyes. Philippe would have struggled, not to save himself, but to protect his wife and child. Deformed, he might not have been able to handle a sword well, or wrestle, but he would have tried. And for that offense, for the crime of merely being alive and himself, he'd had his bones broken and his flesh pulped while his wife looked on.

Aramis and Agnes were two of a kind. They both saw past appearances, were moved by the innermost desires. Agnes truly had the heart of a lion. She was a fitting mother for a king, even one who would never have a throne. Perhaps especially for one who would never have a throne.

But could Aramis do as she had done? Could he live in darkness, knowing that if any discovered the nature of his love for Porthos that the pair of them would be cast in the same roles as Philippe and Agnes, new players for an old scene? Would Aramis be able to live on if his love was the very thing that condemned Porthos to an ignominious death?

He was known for his discretion, but discretion was not absolute secrecy. Would not such a constrained life bring more misery than joy?

And what of Porthos? Thinking on all they had been and continued to be to each other made Aramis think that perhaps his regard was returned. And Porthos had grown up in the Court of Miracles, where there were establishments that catered to all sorts of tastes. It was possible that even if he did not wish to take Aramis to bed, that he would not revile Aramis for the mere suggestion. After all, he had said nothing when Aramis told him of Marsac, had shown no disgust.

And yet, Aramis could not forget the sorrow in Agnes' face when she spoke of Philippe. Though… Sorrow was not the only thing there. There existed in her an unquenchable light. Sun, moon, and stars that nourished the garden of her spirit. That holy fire was the love that she still carried with her, a love that could not be stopped by death. A love that even God could not sunder.

Aramis had always aspired to such a love. And now he had found one. He needed only to reach out and grasp it. He would be risking all, risking as much or more than Agnes had, risking his very life, but if he could hold that warmth inside himself, be lit from within, even for one moment, was that not worth dying for? At least as his final breath left him he would know that he had truly lived.

Wrapping his fingers more securely around the cross given to him by the queen, Aramis raised it to his lips and made a wish.

_Let me be brave_, he thought. _Let me be brave like Agnes._


	6. Love Never Is

**Warnings:** As of this chapter, this drabble collection is rated M for sexual situations.

**Notes:** Braies are linen loincloths worn in the time period. The real question is, can you spot the Star Trek reference?

* * *

_Love Never Is_

As much time as Porthos spent with his brothers in arms, he still sometimes failed to understand them. Or maybe he just had a simpler nature. As far as he was concerned, they'd saved a woman's life and solved a crime, and thus they should celebrate. Of course, they had incidentally saved the Cardinal's life as well, but one couldn't have everything.

But here they were in The Fox, and only he and d'Artagnan seemed to have caught the proper mood. Athos was in his usual corner, staring at the bottom of his glass like he was offended by being able to see it. Aramis, usually the brightest of them all, sat with Athos, looking equally morose. Hell, even the feathers on his hat were drooping, and his fingers constantly moved over that thrice cursed cross the queen had given him. Porthos had an irrational dislike for that little charm. Every time he saw Aramis clutching at it, he was struck with a horrible feeling of foreboding.

D'Artagnan got his attention, jerking his head at the table where their brooding companions sat. "I know what's wrong with Athos. But what of Aramis? I didn't think him that upset about the Comtess' fate."

Porthos knocked back the last of his grog, thumping his glass down and then picking up his hat. "Not sure, but I mean to find out. You'll look after Athos?"

"Of course," d'Artagnan said, as if there were no doubt. As if he were and always would be one of their number. Porthos steeled his jaw and clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder. He'd speak with Athos and Aramis about getting d'Artagnan a commission once the pair of them had dried out.

"Good man," he said, sliding his hat on over his bandana. D'Artagnan nodded and leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Athos. Porthos clapped the lad on the shoulder one more time, and then made his way to the fireside table where Athos and Aramis were trying to drink their misery.

"Aramis, would you mind if I stayed with you tonight? I've some tender places that could do with a good soak in that washtub of yours."

Aramis looked up, and there was something stricken about his expression – some hunted look in his eye that Porthos liked not at all. "You weren't burned, were you?" Aramis asked, and Porthos hastened to shake his head.

"Hardly. Just bruising here and there. Now come on, before you've drunk enough that I have to carry you there. I'm too sore for that."

Aramis could be contrary when he was drunk. It was better to have some pretense for getting him alone. And if that pretense brought out the nursemaid in Aramis, all the better.

"Very well," Aramis said, just as Porthos knew he would. He finished his wine, a few red droplets dripping into his beard in a way that made Porthos want to lick them off, and then put on his hat. "Athos," he inclined his head.

Athos raised his glass to the pair of them, and Aramis stood, swaying lightly on his feet. As soon as he'd vacated his chair, d'Artagnan slid into it, giving them all one of his cheeky grins. Porthos shook his head, his lips twitching. The boy was a natural.

**-l-**

Aramis walked close on the way to his apartments. Porthos was forced to continually switch which side of Aramis he walked on, as Aramis veered closer and closer until they were pressed shoulder to shoulder and Porthos either had to move or be pushed into the middle of the street. It might have been the drink, or it might have been that Aramis just wanted to touch him. It could have even been both – Aramis was a tactile creature, and even more so when he was drunk. And he could be oddly hesitant in asking for what he wanted, at least when it came to Porthos.

They reached Aramis' lodgings without incident, and Aramis let them in through the little back garden, using a long iron key to unlatch the door that led to his suite of rooms.

"If you want a bath, you best start fetching the water," Aramis said after he fumbled his way through lighting a lamp, and Porthos was reminded of his pretext for getting Aramis alone.

He scratched at his beard, passing through the sitting room on his way to the bedroom, Aramis a few steps behind him. "Not sure about the bath now," he said at length. "Think fetching the water might do more damage than the soak would help." He sat on the bed, and Aramis sat next to him, once again closer than was strictly necessary.

Not that Porthos minded. He loved Aramis, loved that Aramis found comfort in his nearness, that he sought out Porthos' touch in any capacity. But a clingy Aramis always meant one of two things: Aramis was upset, or he was ecstatic. As he wasn't smiling, Porthos doubted it was the second one.

He didn't say anything. Aramis would talk when he was ready, and before then wild horses wouldn't be able to drag it out of him. He could be worse than Athos that way. So instead of asking, Porthos silently draped his arm around Aramis' shoulders and pulled him close, tugging his head down so that it rested on Porthos' shoulder. Aramis went willingly, a sigh escaping him as he relaxed into the embrace.

Porthos took both their hats off, tossing them in the vicinity of the rickety table that stood near the fireplace, and knew that whatever thoughts Aramis was chewing over must be heavy ones when he didn't protest the rough treatment. Resigning himself to a long night, Porthos gave Aramis a squeeze and settled in to wait. Luckily it was a warm enough night that he didn't need to lay a fire in the grate. He had the feeling Aramis wouldn't have let him get up just then.

**-l-**

It was about an hour later that Aramis finally shifted. Porthos was grateful, if only because his arm had been numb for the last twenty minutes. "Get your boots off. Let's get under the blankets," he said when Aramis tilted his face up to meet Porthos' eyes. The corner of Aramis' mouth went up in a pale half-grin, and he bent to do as he was told, yanking his boots off and shucking his doublet. With a sideways glance at Porthos, he went further still, pulling off his breeches and shirt so that he stood there in only his braies.

Porthos' mouth went dry, and he had to force himself not to stare. It was far from the first time he'd seen Aramis' body. He wasn't sure why this time was different. Perhaps because this time he knew that what he had long wanted might be in his reach. If not today, then someday.

He, too, stripped down to his braies, though he usually avoided sleeping in so little when he shared a bed with Aramis, lest his body give away an interest he'd always assumed was unwelcome. But it was a warm night, and with the two of them beneath the blankets it would be just shy of too hot.

And something in the way Aramis kept sneaking looks at him made him daring.

They got settled in the bed, bickering over the covers and the good pillow as was their habit. They'd done it so many times now that it was almost a ritual, as necessary a step to settling to sleep as closing their eyes. Finally, they were situated, Aramis pressing himself to Porthos' side in one long line of muscle and heat.

"Out with it then," Porthos said, sensing that Aramis was ready to talk. He could feel, rather than see Aramis roll to face him. Aramis had put the lamp out, plunging the room into darkness, and Porthos wondered at that, that whatever it was that was troubling Aramis bothered him so deeply that he needed to hide it behind the veil of night.

Porthos felt fingertips against his bicep and leaned into the touch, willing to lend Aramis whatever strength he needed. Wanting to show him that Porthos was _there._

"The Comtess De Larroque. You heard what they accused her of."

Porthos nodded, then remembering Aramis couldn't see him, said, "Yes. Witchcraft. A load of horse shit."

Aramis laughed, and it was the best thing Porthos had heard all day.

"But the basis for that accusation. They… the unnatural relations. With the other women."

"Oh," Porthos said.

_Oh._

"The looks on their faces. The disgust. As if it were something vile. Something that by its very nature was anathema, a crime against God."

"_Aramis_," Porthos growled, his voice dropping down an octave, his anger filling his throat with rocks. Aramis tensed, and Porthos huffed out a hot breath of air, putting his hand on Aramis' hip to show that it wasn't Aramis he was angry with. "I think it was the suggestion that she was drugging them, doing it against their will, that made the people react so," Porthos said in a much softer tone.

Another laugh, but this one was not beautiful.

"You no more believe that than I do, but it is kind of you to say."

Porthos clenched his teeth against a noise of outrage. "Your love for Marsac wasn't vile. It wasn't disgusting. Real love never is."

There was a long pause that had the feel of a prayer. Then, "Not just my love for Marsac."

Porthos couldn't breathe.

All at once he was light headed and trembling all over, his skin flushing hot and cold. "Aramis?"

His voice sounded high and strange, even to him.

Aramis shifted closer, and he was shaking just as hard as Porthos was. "What if they're right?" he said, fast and panicky, all his charm and pretty speeches abandoning him. "What if it is a sin? Something reviled by God."

Porthos brushed his hand along Aramis' chest, feeling the harsh thud of his heart, his fingers coming to rest on that blasted cross. "Not your God. No God worth praying to could count this as a sin." Smiling, and feeling as if he might weep or shout, he repeated, "Love never is."

Aramis made a strangled sound. "As easy as that?"

Porthos chuckled. "As easy as that."

The whys and wherefores had never mattered to him as much as they did to Aramis. What made him happy and hurt no one was good, and that was the end of it.

Maybe he just had a simpler nature.

Aramis kissed him.

It was quick and chaste, a closed mouthed press of lip upon lip. It burst across Porthos' skin like a bomb going off. He was struck dumb, unable to move or think, let alone react.

Aramis kissed him again, and this time it was slower, sweeter, and Porthos regained control of himself enough to kiss back. He waited for Aramis to part his lips first, for he had a feeling that this was the first time Aramis had acted on his attraction to a man, and he didn't want to break the fragile shell of hope and safety they had woven for themselves in this darkened room. Outside these walls the world waited to condemn them, to tie them to a pyre, but Porthos had no fear of flames. Aramis had already set him afire.

"Porthos," Aramis moaned, and this was something new, something Porthos had never been allowed to see before. This was Aramis in the throes of passion, this was his tongue in Porthos' mouth and his cock hard and insistent against Porthos' thigh.

Porthos pushed the linen of Aramis' braies aside and ran his fingers down the underside of Aramis' length, gratified when Aramis hissed out a _Morbleu! _and bucked his hips.

"Relax," he told his friend, his brother, his soon to be lover. "I've done this before."

Aramis' hands came up to grasp his shoulders. "What? You – you never said."

Porthos smirked, and pressed his face into Aramis' neck so that he'd be able to feel it. "I grew up in the Court of Miracles and then I joined the crew of a ship. It would be more surprising if I hadn't. It's more common than you might think."

Aramis cursed again. "Are you telling me that I'm the maiden, and you are the experienced gallant come to teach me the art of making love?"

That drew a hearty guffaw from deep in Porthos' belly, all his fears and doubts swept away in this one singular moment of happiness. "Well, you are so very pretty. I'd say it's fitting."

"It's certainly a role reversal," Aramis began. It seemed like he would have said more, but Porthos stopped him with a much deeper kiss than the first two had been.

After that there was no more talking.

"Get some sleep," Porthos told Aramis, once they'd both spent themselves. It didn't take long. Things were too new, emotions running too high for either of them to make it last. Aramis muttered something about not needing to ask for the stories behind Porthos' scars, since he'd stitched most of them himself, and then claimed Porthos' chest as his pillow.

Porthos raised his eyebrows at that remark, but remained silent.

They could talk in the morning.


	7. You Know Me

**Warnings:** Open Relationships; Canon Typical Violence.

* * *

_You Know Me_

The morning after Aramis confessed his love to Porthos was much like any other. He awoke plastered to Porthos' side, an arm draped over his back and Porthos snuffling in his hair. It was far from the first time they'd woken thus, though it was the first time they had awoken as lovers.

Aramis smiled and stroked Porthos' arm, letting his fingers slide up until he cupped the back of Porthos' neck. Porthos grumbled, as he was wont to do, and burrowed closer.

"Porthos," Aramis whispered, leaning down to let his beard tickle Porthos' ear.

A growl and the tightening of Porthos' arm about his waist was all Aramis received in answer.

He chuckled. Porthos was notoriously surly in the mornings. "Very well," he said in his normal speaking voice. "I thought we might put the morning to good use, but if you want a lie in…"

Porthos' head shot up, eyelids fluttering rapidly. "I'm up!"

Aramis raised his brows. "_Are_ you?" Eager to feel for himself, he gripped Porthos' thigh, fingers inching toward the patch of curls between Porthos' legs.

Porthos gave one of his vibrant belly laughs, the ones that always made Aramis feel a little lighter. "I'll be more than _up_ at that rate."

Aramis sighed, rubbing their cheeks together, glorying that he now had the freedom to do these things. There were so many touches, so many gestures he had stopped himself from making – and what an idiot he was, not to see why – and now he could explore Porthos' body with impunity.

At least, he could when they were safe behind closed doors. In the dark, where no one may see them.

Aramis stilled.

"Aramis?" Porthos whispered. When Aramis didn't answer, Porthos reached across him, grabbing the bottle of wine that Aramis kept on the little table by the bed. Pulling the cork out, Porthos swished the wine around in his mouth, swallowing with a gulp. That done, he set the wine bottle on the floor on his side of the bed, then took Aramis' face in both hands and pulled him into a sweet, gentle kiss.

Aramis moaned, a knot in his chest loosening, though not vanishing completely. Porthos' hands were large and warm, and Aramis liked the feel of his calluses. Taking someone stronger and larger than himself to bed was something he'd never experienced before, and yet had always wanted without knowing it. There was something incredibly freeing about the fact that Porthos could hold him down, could manhandle him, and Aramis would allow it because he trusted Porthos completely.

Porthos finished the kiss with a swipe of tongue and a sting of teeth, and then pulled back, though only far enough to rest their foreheads together.

"Second thoughts?" he asked.

Aramis buried his face in Porthos' neck, and Porthos let him shelter there. "Second and third," he admitted. "But not about you. About the world. I dislike lying about something so important. I will not hide who I am. Hypocrisy of this nature is why I left the church, you know that."

Porthos wrapped his arms around Aramis, pulling him closer until they were pressed chest to chest. Aramis could feel a burgeoning erection against his stomach and smiled into Porthos' shoulder.

"Ignore that," Porthos told him. "Can't help it, not when you're in my arms like this."

Aramis snorted. "Flatterer."

Porthos shrugged.

That sat together quietly for some minutes, Aramis basking in the feeling of being held. Of being so close they need not speak, or put up pretense. They could simply _be_. He did not usually reach such a point with his lovers. His affairs were quick, forbidden things of fierce passion. It was rare for him to have the opportunity to stay the night with one of his women without fear of discovery, and even when he did they expected him to act the gallant. None had ever comforted him, or allowed him to be quiet, just listening to them breathe.

Though he supposed it could simply be that Porthos had already heard all his stories, and in fact been there for most of them. It was difficult to impress a man with your scars when he was the one who'd held your guts in while you stitched yourself up.

"About the world out there," Porthos began, prompting Aramis to look up at him.

"What of it?"

Porthos flexed his jaw, and Aramis tensed. Porthos was wearing that expression of his that said _You aren't going to like this._

"No one will think anything of it when they see us coming and going from each other's quarters. We've done that for years. But if we stop taking women, you especially…"

Aramis pulled away from Porthos, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and casting about for his braies. He suddenly didn't want to be naked. Once he'd found them and put them on, he ran a hand through his hair, opening and shutting his mouth twice before he'd worked through his initial reaction. Finally, he plucked at his moustache and said, "You think me incapable of fidelity?"

Had he not proven his loyalty beyond any doubt? He, who fought and killed for Porthos to prove his innocence, and killed again in the Court of Miracles to save his life? He, who had mended bones and sewn flesh to hold Porthos' body together? He, who had been brother and comrade and lover in all but deed for nigh on five years?

Porthos stood, naked and magnificent, and stroked Aramis' cheek, smoothing his hair back from his face and soothing Aramis against his will. "Peace, Aramis," he said, following the words with a kiss to Aramis' temple. "I know you. I know how you are. You'd do whatever I asked. If I wanted you to forsake women for the rest of your life, you'd do it."

Mollified, Aramis relaxed against Porthos, pressing his cheek more firmly against Porthos' palm. "I would," he confirmed. "Anything you asked."

Porthos nodded. "And I'm asking you to keep on as we have. Not because I don't think you'd give up women for me. Or because you aren't enough for me. People will _notice_, Aramis, if we both suddenly stop taking lovers. And then they'll start asking questions."

Aramis squeezed his eyes closed. "And because you know me."

Porthos shrugged. "You love me. Have for a long time. But you love women too. There's love enough in your heart for both of us, and you'll always love me most."

Lips twitching, Aramis took a deep breath. "Someone is awfully sure of himself."

Porthos smiled, and it was breathtaking. The flash of white teeth against black beard and brown skin… Aramis had never seen anyone who could match Porthos' smile, and he doubted he ever would.

"You love me," he told Porthos. "As much as I love you."

"Yeah," Porthos said. "I do."

**-l-**

The day of the tournament between the King's Musketeers and the Cardinal's Red Guards dawned bright and sunny, reflecting on the banners that decorated the stands. Aramis stood with Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, right on the field. It was a place of honor, given to them by Treville.

Aramis let his eyes roam over the stands, devoting the attendees to memory, lest it should prove important later.

"You invited your widow," he observed, spying Porthos' patroness, a dark haired beauty with skin like porcelain. She was wearing blue silk, with pearls in her hair, and Aramis despised how lovely it made her look.

"Her name is Alice," Porthos said.

More sharply than he'd intended, Aramis retorted, "You only needed thirty _livre_. Not a wife."

Love had made him foolish. And jealous. It had seemed a fine plan, the morning that they discussed it, the pair of them continuing to lie with women. Aramis _did_ love women, loved speaking with them, touching them, loving them with all he had for a night or two until their time together came to an end, but when the pact was made he had not considered how he would feel to see Porthos doing the same.

"Did I say anything about marriage? No."

Well if he wasn't going to marry her, what was Porthos doing inviting her here, pulling her into the world of the Musketeers, _their _world? They had agreed to _take_ women, not _keep_ them, and Aramis was comforted not at all by Porthos' silence.

Porthos gave him look of displeasure, and some part of Aramis knew that jealousy had made him ugly and small, but that part of him was drowning beneath a torrent of feeling so heavy that Aramis nearly staggered. "My God, you're actually considering it!" he pressed on, unable to help himself.

"There's more to life than the Musketeers, you know," Porthos said, and Aramis heard, _There is more to life than my being with you._

His tongue felt numb in his mouth. He could scarcely pay attention to the proceedings. His vision narrowed into a black tunnel of despair. He looked toward the fight, but all he could see was the lovely widow in her blue dress, prancing off with Porthos on her arm, inviting him to live in her house until he grew fat and lazy and lost his desire for fights and campaigns filled with little sleep and muddy boots. Until he lost his desire for Aramis.

It was all unfolding before him. Porthos and the widow would have children, beautiful children with honey brown skin and curly black hair, and perhaps one would even be called Aramis, just to drive the knife a little deeper into Aramis' heart.

He was going to be sick.

Porthos smiled at him, no doubt seeing the distress in his face. Porthos had always had a sixth sense about these things. He always knew when Athos was having a bad night and would need to be carried home, when Aramis couldn't sleep alone because of the ghosts of Savoy… He'd even started doing it with d'Artagnan, pulling the young Gascon to the side for a wrestling match when d'Artagnan's temper threatened to overwhelm him.

Out on the field Treville screamed, drawing Aramis out of himself. He threw his hat to the side and had his sword out even as he catalogued the captain's injuries, satisfying himself that the arm was likely a greenstick break, if the bone had splintered at all. The real damage would be to the joint. It might be dislocated. At the very least, the bruising would swell and keep Treville from moving it easily for a fortnight.

Blood pumping, Aramis raised his sword, twirling to gut a man, only to be brought up short by the king calling a halt.

He grit his teeth, turning his killing blow to the side, not sure if he was relieved. He never reveled in death and always prayed for the slain, but just this moment his thoughts were bloody and bleak and might have been alleviated by painting his sword red.

_God forgive me._

D'Artagnan took the captain's place and the tournament resumed. This time Aramis focused intently on the action, his breath coming in heaving gasps as if it were he who was fighting. In a way, it was. D'Artagnan was brother and squire to all of them, perhaps even something like a son, and Aramis couldn't help but grin when d'Artagnan performed a sword flourish that Aramis had taught him.

Then came the killing blow, and Porthos' hand on Aramis' shoulder. They turned to each other, as they always did, and Aramis forgot his jealousy, forgot the loss of Porthos that loomed in the distance. They were Aramis and Porthos, as they always had been and always would be.

But then Aramis saw the widow exiting the stands, and his smile froze in place.

Porthos tilted his head, turning to look over his shoulder.

"Oh. I should go talk to her."

"Yes, you should," Aramis said, wondering if he sounded anything close to normal. "I'll be here."

He went to fetch his hat, telling himself that he wasn't going to watch.

But of course he did.

They were speaking. Aramis couldn't tell if it was going well. The widow had her back to him.

If Porthos married her, Aramis supposed he would have to learn her name. He would not let himself treat her badly just because she could openly love Porthos.

They kissed. Aramis bit his tongue and tasted blood, bracing himself to smile and congratulate them.

But then the widow was walking away.

Forcing himself to move at a normal pace, Aramis put his hat on and approached Porthos, mouth dry and hands clammy. Just what was it about Porthos that disarmed him so completely?

"So, will you marry the lovely widow – Alice?" Aramis quickly corrected himself. He would start as he meant to go on. If Porthos chose to take a wife and have Aramis as his lover, Aramis would treat the lady with respect. He would be godfather and uncle to the children, and no one would ever suspect that his smile was not an expression of joy so much as a bleeding wound disguised.

Porthos turned to face him, expression inscrutable. "Who would look after you if I did that, eh?"

Aramis' heart skipped a beat, and he felt at once like a man who'd been given a reprieve from execution. He slung his arm around Porthos' shoulder, remembering at the last moment that he could be close, but not _too_ close when they were in such a public place, and turned what would have been an embrace into a backslap.

Maybe he would have to share Porthos one day, but it was not this day, and Aramis was glad. He wasn't ready yet. He might never be ready, and Porthos probably knew that.

Porthos knew him.


End file.
